Lolita

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955) I didn’t think I would re-read this book—maybe I still haven’t—I listened to the audiobook. I first read it in college for a class about film adaptations of literature—a really fun class that introduced me to a lot of books and movies. I don’t remember my reaction—I probably read it fast and didn’t get a lot of it—and probably still haven’t. I saw that the audiobook is read by Jeremy Irons, who is great at reading and turned it into quite a pleasurable, entertaining experience, despite the nauseating subject matter—the intimate observations, in memoir form, of a pedophile. It’s graphic enough to be stomach-turning while being continuously funny enough to laugh (out loud, if one is disposed) at times, and always be entertained—so the reader is constantly implicated and torn between reactions. I believe Jeremy Irons played Humbert in the later film version, which I didn’t see. (I didn’t like that director’s other films, and one Lolita film was enough for me, anyway.) I have seen Kubrick’s film version, which creates even more of a conflict for the viewer, because you can’t pretend it’s literature and you can’t ignore the story, yet the comedy is more overt (Peter Sellers is always out of control), and for me, I always identify with James Mason, no matter how unlikable the character he’s playing. My favorite part of the book is the whole extended middle section, where Humbert takes Dolores (Lolita) on the road, as if on the run from both the law, decency, his insanity and paranoia, time and mortality, and the other very different style pedophile, Clare Quilty. Besides the continuous movement, it’s also like a critical and detailed travelogue of Fifties United States, courtesy Humbert’s endless, sharp, cynical, sarcastic, and hilarious observations about the country and the time period. So, found myself nostalgic along with everything else—the guilty laughs, revolting disgust, and deep sadness.

4.29.25